


Didn't We Almost Have it All

by Ermmma



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drinking, Drugs, F/M, Gen, I'm Sorry, Idk I'm trying, M/M, There will be humor and fluff and smut eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ermmma/pseuds/Ermmma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rest of the boys in the room haven’t said a word. Most haven’t even breathed. Enjolras crossed a very painful line this time and everyone—Enjolras included—knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve never attempted anything like this before, but here is a little snippet of something that popped into my head… Let me know if you like/hate it, or want me to continue/never try again.

There was no way he’d be able to quickly talk his way out of this one.

Enjolras had risen to political and social prominence using his words, and now he can’t find the right ones to rationalize the venom he just spewed. The potent mixture of shock and confusion in the other man’s crystal blue eyes is enough to have the Enjolras contemplating throwing himself out the nearest open window.

But he won’t. He has too much pride for that. He didn't take away a lot of wisdom from his father, but he was raised on the phrase “never let them see you sweat” and he’s not going to let his group of friends see him panic now.

The blonde leader of the Les Amis realizes too late that he has taken far too much time rationalizing his actions internally and not verbally trying to repair the situation when he sees tears form in the broken expression of the raven-haired man across from him.

The rest of the boys in the room haven’t said a word. Most haven’t even breathed. Enjolras crossed a very painful line this time and everyone—Enjolras included—knows it.

Without another word, Grantaire stands up straight and reconnects his gaze with his E’s ever-stoic one. Forcefully and deliberately, the cynic drops the whiskey bottle on the hardwood floor, letting it shatter into a pool of dark shards of glass, turns slowly on his heels, and walks down the stairs and into the cold night air…


	2. Thirty-One Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Grantaire had been standing too close to the sun.

Reaching for the nearest writing utensil--because with him, there was always one around--Grantaire grabbed the stubby, chewed pencil and added a mark to the wall.

There were 31 marks now.

Resting his dark curls back against the cold wall, the broken young man let a tired sigh slip through his breath. He tried not to think about the man who had left the bite marks in that pencil as he tossed it in the kitchen's garbage can and shifted the bin to hide the marks once more.

31 days since he had left. No, 31 days since his love had forced him to leave. Grantaire, always the servant, had obliged with his wishes that night and slipped out of his boyfriend's apartment. And the light had slipped out of his life.

For Enjolras had been the only source of light for Grantaire. He was a blazing supernova in the dark, empty abyss that Grantaire supposed was to be his soul. And just like a real supernova, the light had burned to quickly and too brightly and had gone out. 

And Grantaire had been standing too close to the sun.

He rubbed his long, bony fingers over his tired eyes and sighed again. Those same fingers used to produce magnificent paintings, some breathtaking charcoal sketches and even a few songs on the rickety upright piano at the Musain Cafe. Now, they just helped bring the continuous supply of whiskey bottles to his thin, dry lips.

Before he could even make it to the cabinet to find and open yet another bottle (was that already the second today?), Grantaire heard the creaky front door to his run-down, cramped studio apartment slowly open.

Without turning to face the intruder, Grantaire muttered angrily, "Marius, if you're here to try and get me down to the Musain again, you can very simply turn right around and fuck right off."

The light, airy voice of Marius' gentle blonde girlfriend filled the tense air. There was no anger, judgement or even pity in her words as Cosette replied, "I already know better than to try and make you do anything, Grantaire."

Well, this was a visit he hadn't expected.

Over the last 31 days, each and every one of his friends had come calling. Marius and Jehan had been first, as they had been in the room when he and Enjolras' final fight happened. Jehan had pulled Grantaire into his lap and let him sob in his over-sized knit sweater while he whispered nonsensical poetry in Grantaire's black curls to try and calm the violent shakes. Marius sat awkwardly next to them, struggling to find the right words to string together, but wanting to make sure he was there for the man who had always quietly been there for him. Neither man dared leave the apartment for the nearly three days.

Joly had been next, a few days later. He had never had a way with words, so he focused more on Grantaire's physical health. The med student elected to ignore the pile-up of cheap whiskey bottles in the corner as he busied himself with other medical concerns, something for which Grantaire was still grateful.

Courfeyrac had stopped by later that evening, offering everything from video games to Chinese food to weed in an attempt to cheer Grantaire up. Although the two had always been each other's favorite drinking buddies, Courf steered clear of offering any alcohol. By the looks of the artist's studio, it seemed he was having no trouble getting that stuff on his own.

Even Combeferre had dropped by a few times, a gesture that left Grantaire wondering if a certain someone else had asked him to come. He and Combeferre had never been particularly close, but as Enjolras' dearest friend, they had come to a mutual respect. There was a part of him that hoped Combeferre came on an errand from Enjolras, to ease his mind. It was a silly thought, on that the heartbroken boy knew wasn't true, but it helped quell the chills that had frozen his heart for the last month.

Others had come and gone as their class schedules allowed. He was never left alone for more than a few hours, growing more and more suspicious that perhaps a legitimate rotation had been put in place. He didn't even bother locking the door anymore.

This was his first visit from Cosette, though, so he wondered if his friends (they were Enjolras' friends, really) had grown weary of him. Or maybe they felt, as he did, that they were out of options. It was time to give up hope. Maybe he would never feel happiness again.

Before his thoughts could spiral, his dark mind was interrupted by a gentle hand on his drooping shoulder.

"I know I'm still new to the circle, but I hope you realize that we love you," Cosette whispered softly. "And I just want to help." Her hand dropped from his shoulder, sliding down his thin arms slowly, but confidently. She breathed in and smiled sweetly as she pulled the dark bottle from Grantaire's trembling hands, taking his bony fingers in her own.

She waited until their eyes locked before saying gently, "I think it's time we talk about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to change the rating because of language and drinking and such...
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to all who have read! I promise it won't be this angsty the whole time. I'll try to have some fun with the friends soon! 
> 
> If there is anything you guys like, dislike or want to see, please let me know!


	3. The beginning of the story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you sure you really want me to talk about it?” Grantaire started with a smirk, attempting to mask his nervousness with wit. “I mean it when I say I don’t think you have that kind of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my update took so long! Thank you too all for the kind words and kudos and such. I'm always open to suggestions, comments, etc. :)

Cosette wastes no time twitting about the kitchen like a small bird, putting the kettle on, tossing a few of dirty glasses in the dishwasher and turning off the overhead light. Grantaire instinctively winces when she moves toward the trash can to throw out the empty whiskey bottles. He didn’t have the energy to dissect whether he was reacting to her discarding the bottles or her proximity to his 31 marks behind the garbage can. 

The little bird then gently guided Grantaire over to the futon, wrapping him up in his comforter and pushing a hot mug of tea (with just a hint of something stronger) into his shaking palms.

“Are you sure you really want me to talk about it?” Grantaire started with a smirk, attempting to mask his nervousness with wit. “I mean it when I say I don’t think you have that kind of time.”

She pressed her tiny hands over the top of his own, curling in close before answering. “Honestly, we will probably get 45 quiet minutes before Marius goes into some sort of panic about not hearing from me.” She reached for her purse, pulling out her cell phone and holding down the button to shut it off, a gesture that spoke volumes to both her character and her commitment to this budding friendship. 

“For you though, R? I have all the time in the world.”

Looks like it’s time to start from the beginning…

\----

Holding a large blank canvas under his arm, Grantaire headed through the Quad searching for new inspiration. As a third-year art major, he knew better than to try and find inspiration in the way the sun hit the huge oak trees on campus or the way the students sprawled out in the grass throughout the quad. He’s pretty sure his painting techniques teacher would vomit on his work if he brought in some sort of landscape. 

This final project was supposed to be about doing some soul-searching and using inspiration to make a painting that describes you. And nobody has ever used words like “sunny” to describe this scrawny, sarcastic loner.

He found his best friend since first year standing on one of the tables closest to the fine arts building, making some extremely lewd hand gestures with his eyes transfixed on his computer screen. After a short internal debate between whether to run away and act like he’s never seen the boy before or whether to try and stop him, Grantaire tucks the canvas back under the other arm and heads over to the table with a smirk already spread on his face.

The lewd hand motions have turned into an odd, rhythmic hip thrust by the time Grantaire gets within eyesight. Courfeyrac fumbles to quickly pause whatever he is watching and shoots Grantaire a blinding smile before energetically waving him over. Grantaire can’t help but chuckle quietly when he realizes that, while the video may have stopped, Courfeyrac’s hips have not.

“Courf, you have to be the only guy in the entire world that somehow makes those vulgar moves look strangely charming,” Grantaire quips as his outgoing friend winks at the passing flock of giggling sorority girls. “What in Loki’s name are you even doing?”

Courf shoots him a devious look, obviously all-too-glad he asked. “I’m working on my final project!” the theatre major quipped, not stopping when Grantaire’s eyebrow shifts high up his forehead. “You see, I’m just supposed to take a popular YouTube video and re-interpret it without using any sound…”

“I’m surprised your teacher is letting you mime porn.”

“It’s not porn, you jerk!” Courf protests, throwing a notebook at Grantaire’s jet black curls. “Although, with the way this guy speaks, it’s what I wish it could turn into...”

He rips his headphone cord out of the laptop and hits play again, allowing Grantaire to hear the source of his friend’s fascination. 

He can’t see anything from behind the computer, but the sounds strikes him to the bone immediately. Coming from the speakers is the most intense, chilling, passionate and eloquent voice the artist has ever heard. He finds himself completely frozen for the first few seconds, pretty sure he’s lost all motor skills, until it registers that Courf is talking again, urging him to come around to actually see the video.

Grantaire never actually looks at the screen, worried about what he might find but the voice is fervent and fiery and suddenly he wants to paint with bright reds and broad strokes, and…

When he falls back down to the real world, Grantaire realizes that his friend is still talking about the project. Apparently, this voice belongs to a student on their own campus. A student Courf used to run around with back when he was a political science major. 

“So anyway, he and his group are giving a speech at the student film festival tonight. I know it’s not your scene typically. Hell, it’s not mine anymore, either,” Courf starts. “But I want to go.”

It would be like real-life inspiration for him. Maybe for Grantaire as well.

“Marius and Jehan already said they were in,” Courf continued, running a hand through his chestnut locks. “If that isn’t enough, I’m pretty sure Bahorel would go drink-for-drink with you tonight. He loves trying to stir up idealists almost as much as you do.” 

With a wink, Courf tries one last tactic. “Jehan is apparently close to some of these guys, and he said their meetings are usually filled with good-looking co-eds with too much pent-up passion and no outlet, if you know what I mean.”

“I always know what you mean, dude.” 

Grantaire, who had been watching his fingers absent-mindedly stroke over his blank canvas, looked up just in time to see his best friend’s face take a serious turn, now laced with concern and affection.

“R, don’t you think it’s about time you get back out there? It’s been awhile since James has been around, and we all know you can do better anyway, right?” Courfeyrac is treading lightly, not sure if this is still a tough topic. The two certainly haven’t discussed it lately.

They were never anything special, Grantaire and James. Just a summer romance. But it was the only romance that he had ever known. The brooding artist lived up to his moniker, though, and knew it wasn’t going to last. He had known for awhile now that he was destined to end up alone. How could he possibly expect to be a part of something special when he himself wasn’t special? 

R flashed the smirk that has been trademarked “The Grantaire” by his friends, pursing his lips crookedly when he cedes a point or argument. He’s anxious to end this conversation and get to those bright red paints waiting in the building behind him. With fingers literally itching to paint, he shucked his ragged bookbag back onto his shoulder and made his way toward the door to the fine arts building, calling back to Courf with hurried promises for later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we will get e/R next chapter!   
> Thanks again for sticking with me.


	4. Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several more drinks went 'round and Grantaire decided he’d had enough. This kid’s dreams were too big for one person and someone was going to have to pull him back to reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the only one who edits this, so apologies for any/all errors.

“You sure have been quiet, dude,” Courf piped from the kitchen, head in the fridge searching for munchies. “Usually when we share a blunt between us you talk more, not less.”

“Yeah, if that’s even possible,” Bahorel interjected before ducking the empty beer bottle aimed to hit between the eyes.

“First, Bahorel, fuck you. You hang out with me for my wit.” Grantaire said, his fingers now tapping the arm of the couch rhythmically. It was a twitchy, almost frantic rhythm as he just couldn’t seem to calm his nerves. He needed something to distract them, anything would do. 

Dammit, he wished he hadn’t thrown that bottle now. 

“Second, I’m fine. Maybe this stuff is making you paranoid.” 

Finally resurfaced from the depths of the fridge with an armful of snacks, Courf plopped not-so-gracefully next to Grantaire, holding his gaze with as much concern as his stoned eyes could muster. Grantaire dropped his gaze and tugged at a few of his wild black curls before responding.

“Seriously I’m totally fine.” 

\------

With a few blunts and more than a few beers between them, the three best friends (read: troublemakers) set out for the night’s event. Actually they had already missed the student films, but the meeting and social were just beginning. While the other two were relaxed and ready for a good time, Grantaire just could not shake the nerves. He was sure the weed would’ve done it, but his long fingers were as busy as before.

By the time the three finally stumbled into the bar that’s serving as the meeting space, Grantaire made one quick and unnerving realization.

The boy from the video was already speaking.

He took a second to soak that voice in before working up the courage to look up. That voice. For as cold and biting as it sounded, it was backed up by fire and passion. And for reasons beyond the capabilities of Grantaire’s clouded brain, it was oddly soothing. Grantaire took one large, deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling some of the nerves ooze out of his fingertips as he replaced the vacated space in his body with the sound of this voice. That biting, almost-harsh voice sent wave after wave of calm over him.

Then, he raised his sunken eyes toward the stage—toward the source of that voice—and immediately regretted it as several different sensations flooded his muddled mind and body at a blazing pace. The man (boy?) was standing with one hand around the microphone and the other balled in a fist thrust in the air. His forceful fists led up to slender, strong arms under a burgundy v-neck t-shirt that showed off his prominent, pale collarbone. Up this long, neck and over the adam’s apple, bobbing as he spoke vigorously, Grantaire’s eyes reached his jawline—sharp with a very slight cleft in his chin. Prominent cheek bones that sit high up on his face, tinged pink with emotion. A small, yet powerful nose with a straight, slope that pulls up just slightly at the pointed tip. And the eyes—the most electric shade of blue Grantaire has had the pleasure to see. A shade he’s sure he has never had the pleasure to paint with but certainly will seek out now. He took an extra millisecond to take a mental photo of those eyes before traveling to the lips. Pale pink, with a severely bowed top lip and a lush, full bottom lip. Slightly parted as that chilling voice spilled gracefully over them.

Shockwaves jolted through his body, replacing the calm that had set in. His breathing all but stopped, then suddenly quickened to a frantic pace. His brain won’t slow down and he started to shiver, but was caught by the sweat he felt forming in his armpi--was he getting hard? 

Ok, he has to get out. Sensory overload. If he didn’t physically pry himself away soon, he was going to have to explain to Courf the raging hard-on he was forming in public.

By the time the hot mess of a man shook himself back to reality, he realized the golden-haired angel on stage had stopped speaking, taking his place at a large, loud table of students near the front.

Courf loudly and confidently (as if there were any other way for him) headed straight for the group, arms stretched wide. 

“The prodigal son hath returned!” 

About a dozen pairs of eyes whipped around and, recognizing their old comrade, the table burst into a raucous round of applause and cheers. Courf returned the enthusiasm and worked his way around the circle, handing out hugs and kisses freely.

As Grantaire slowly creeped closer to the table, he noticed that Jehan was already there. The quiet, confident poet immediately glided to the lanky artist’s side and joined their hands sweetly, leading the very nervous, twitchy Grantaire and the very drunk, grinning Bahorel into the fire.

“Hey loves,” Jehan started. “Beauties? Darlings? Hello?” The crowd was already busy roaring with laughter over what Grantaire assumed was one of Courf’s weird sex-capade stories. But, never one to be ignored for very long, the slender, small Creative Writing major grabbed an empty beer bottle from the adjoining table and smashed it on the ground near Courf’s feet. 

For as small and fragile as Jehan might seem, he packed a punch harder than any of them and he certainly had their attention now. 

With all mouths shut and all eyes now focused, Jehan started again.

“Lovelies, I want to introduce you to two people that are very special to both Courfeyrac and myself.” Nobody said anything at first, but Grantaire noticed the eyes all shifting to his hand still clasped with Jehan’s and moved to ease the confusion.

“But none of us are ready to get exclusive just yet,” he said with a smirk. “Trying to maneuver a relationship between the four of us would be exhausting.” A soft rumble of laughter rolled over the crowd as if only there to show they understood. It was just Jehan being Jehan.

“Well if that sass is not a one-time occurrence,” a red-headed boy in the corner started, “I have a feeling you and your bodyguard behind you will fit in quite well here.” His eyes lingered on the hulking mass of drunk weight leaning behind Grantaire.

“You’d be surprised how well he can handle his own,” Bahorel replied, making his way over to his new friend. “In fact, he seems to play bodyguard to me much more often.” 

Grantaire could tell by the way the new kid and Bahorel were already play-fighting, they had just picked up a new drinking buddy for their sad little group. 

“Anyway,” Jehan continued with a delicate but deliberate eyeroll. “The big guy already arm-wrestling with Feuilly in the corner—seriously you two?—That’s Bahorel. And the walking wit next to me here is Grantaire.”

He tried to give a small smile to the whole table, but was having a really hard time peeling his eyes away from the leader. After being introduced to Combeferre, a law student, and Joly, a medical student, Grantaire noticed that the leader had gone back to his animated conversation with the girl next to him. He was leaned in, fire blazing in his eyes, and she was resting her head on her hand. Just watching. 

When they made it around the table to them, the leader took the liberty of introducing himself. Flipping a strand of his wavy blonde hair away from his face, he said his name was Enjolras and turned unceremoniously back to the girl at his left. Grantaire didn’t give two shits what her name was and focused instead on the way the two interact.

She’s got that look. That dreamy look the old-school Disney Princesses give. Oh, they’re definitely dating. 

Fuck. What should Grantaire have expected from a boy who looks like his hair is made from sunshine with goldleaf highlights?

After intros were finally over, Grantaire settled down between Bahorel and Joly. Bahorel noticed the shaky hands first and gave Grantaire a loving punch to the arm.

“You doing alright, R?” Bahorel asked, keeping his eyes fixed on his small friend as he elbowed Feuilly in the ribs. Grantaire responded the only way he seemed to know anymore.

“Seriously, I’m totally fine.”

\------

Enjolras kept trying to steer the conversation back to the serious matters, so Grantaire stopped listening, only checking back in long enough to notice that Enjolras seemed passionate about solving major, overarching, impossible worldly issues. 

Typical revolutionary college student.

Several more drinks went round and Grantaire decided he’d had enough. This kid’s dreams were too big for one person and someone was going to have to pull him back to reality.

“You have some wonderfully idealistic goals ther—I’m sorry what was your name again? I must’ve missed it.” (He hadn’t. He just wanted to hear it rolls of his lips again.)

“Enjolras.”

“Yes, Enjolras. Geez, and I thought Courf and I had names that were too hard for most Americans… Anyway, your dreams are lovely. Just not do-able.”

Those electric blue eyes were almost all iris now, staring right into the dark ones peering from behind Grantaire’s dirty black hair. 

“And why are they not do-able?” Enjolras asked. His full attention was on the artist now, and Grantaire found it nerve-wracking. He knew had to keep going, though. He wanted to hear him speak.

“People have been trying to solve issues like world hunger and poverty and the public school system and equal rights for ages now, but nobody has been able to find solutions. The rich people of the world just don’t care that much.”

Enjolras’ arm came flying out from under the table, knocking over two drinks on its way. “Of course they care! The citizens of the world want to help!” This last sentence forced a rather loud snort from Grantaire.

“I don’t know to which citizens you are referring, but the people from where I grew up don’t give a rat’s ass about the rest of the population. Not everyone has the means to help the rest of the world because they don’t even have the means to help themselves. And when we do, we use it to forget that we don’t have the means.” Grantaire quickly took a drink of the whiskey Feuilly had provided, hoping nobody noticed that he had said ‘we’.

“The students in this club are devoted to setting the world right,” Enjolras replied with a tone that seemed a bit shakier than it had earlier. “We don’t waste what we are given on personal luxuries or our own pastimes. We give all we can.”

“Well, it looks to me like you need to live a little.” 

“It looks to me like you’ve already lived too much.”

Awkward silence ensued as everyone waited with bated breath to see who would concede. Courfeyrac acted first, though, and mostly out of fear, knowing both characters could turn into something serious if not dealt with quickly. He shot up and filled the thick air with talk about his silent Youtube project at school, a project that he hoped made Enjolras extremely uncomfortable. 

The electric blue eyes fell on Grantaire once more, but this time they were missing the fire they held before. Grantaire couldn’t place the emotion, but it felt a lot like it was sitting somewhere between disdain and total apathy.

The rest of the night continued well as Bahorel, Grantaire and new friend Feuilly proceeded to get plastered. Grantaire also learned about Joly’s addiction to the TV show “House.” Apparently, he felt like it was a great learning tool for unusual medical cases and rare diseases. Eponine, the only other girl in the circle besides the one wrapped around Enjolras’ arm, drunkenly admitted that she only came to these meetings for the noticeably-absent Marius. Anyone who would spill that kind of personal, subtly heartbreaking information to him in the first few hours was a welcome companion for Grantaire.

Just a few short hours later, Enjolras decided to call it a night. As he got ready to leave, sliding his bag over his shoulder, he turned to place a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm flailing wildly in the middle of another tall tale. 

“You know, we would love to have you back in the group, Courfeyrac.”

For the first time Grantaire could remember that evening, Combeferre piped in, saying, “Honestly Courfeyrac, it hasn’t been the same. Without you there is nobody to keep the group together. You know I have to spend most of my time calming down the ringleader,” Enjolras’ hand moved away from Courf and folded with the other across his chest as he glares at his classmate. A glare which seemed to go mostly unnoticed. “so I always liked having you there to take over the rest. We need our center back.”

The theater student looked genuinely touched, but didn’t hold the expression for long.

“I’m not all crazy for ‘the cause’ anymore, but” Courf replied, pausing for the few snickers from the crowd. “I sure as hell have missed you guys. I’m back on one condition.” He stumbled quickly over to the other side of the table, squishing his way onto Grantaire’s lap and wrapping one arm around Bahorel.

“You don’t get me without them.”

Enjolras’ eyes snapped to Grantaire with that same look of disdain. Nope, Grantaire thought as Enjolras’ eyes perused slowly over his tattered, worn-out jeans and his faded plain t-shirt, that expression was definitely one of complete and total apathy. And it fucking hurt. 

“You know we would never turn anyone away,” Enjolras replied cooly. “If they truly want to participate.” His lip curled slightly as he took another look down Grantaire’s form. He could practically feel Enjolras writing him off for his poor appearance and cynical attitude.

And with that, the boy with the perfect blonde hair and the perfect speaking voice and the perfect ass stuffed in fucking perfect dark grey jeans motioned for his friend (girlfriend?) to lead the way, ushering them both out of the building.

Grantaire was used to disappointing people—used to glaring or disapproving eyes—but this was somehow much worse. He was used to being treated like he was invisible, like a second-class citizen. But he wasn’t used to any of it from him.

He was going to have to do something about it, though, because Grantaire knew he could no longer go about life without Enjolras in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, Hi! Thanks you all SO much for continuing to read this. It means so much to me. Any feedback you want to give me is most welcome :)
> 
> Also, here's a fun fact. Each chapter so far has been inspired by one or two specific songs... Any guesses?
> 
>  
> 
> But seriously, you are all wonderful and should come say hi to me on my tumblr as well! Same username. Ermmma
> 
> Ok bye!


	5. Sandbox? Sandbox.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire held his gaze for as long as his mind would allow. The mixture of the stare and Enjolras’ voice was making his entire body shake. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and he was starting to feel like it was nothing he would ever experience with anyone else.

“It’s like your aiming for my nose every damn time!” Bahorel growled as he avoided Grantaire’s quickly swinging limbs. Grantaire took his friend’s heightened level of irritation as a strong sign that it was time to hang up the sparring gloves.

“I’m hoping to make your nose look a little bit more like mine,” Grantaire said with a smirk, sliding off his gloves and knocking his knuckles against the large deviation in the bridge of his own nose. “I just want to you to have to suffer as much as I do when you look in the mirror.” 

Bahorel opened his mouth to begin the familiar dance of trying to reassure R about his appearance, but was cut off by the sound of the song “Old Number Seven” coming from Grantaire’s phone. With the grace and ease of a ballet dancer (a skill from a former life, perhaps) R tossed his gloves in his bag, slid his phone out of his pocket and held it to his shoulder while he answered the call from Courfeyrac.

Watching Bahorel clean up their space in the boxing gym, Grantaire wiped his face and fluffed his dark curls with the towel before tossing it in the bin. He hung up with Courf and turned back toward Bahorel to proposition Courf’s plans for the rest of the afternoon.

“Sandbox?” He asked with a knowing smirk. Bahorel thought for all of a split second before shooting him a crooked grin and agreeing.

“Sandbox.”

\---

Half an hour later, the two Fighting Friends—they had earned the nickname, both for their boxing hobby and for the rather alarming number of bar fights in which they have found themselves—arrived at the primary school playground near Courf’s apartment. He and Jehan both already had their beach towels rolled out in the sandbox, and Jehan had a beautiful yellow sun umbrella up to protect his freckles. It had become a common spot for their group to hang out, as there weren’t any actual beaches around. They had gotten used to the weird stares from parents and those parents, in turn, had gotten used to the weird actions of the young “adults”.

As stimulating as the conversation (and cooler of alcohol hidden in non-descript bottles) was, Grantaire felt a familiar feeling tingling around his fingers. The itch was back. He jumped up suddenly and made for his car, parked across the park, in hopes of retrieving his beloved sketchpad. As he walked back with it securely in his grasp, he imagined a certain form—a certain person, hit perfectly by the sun shining through the trees. Blonde hair practically glowing, blue eyes piercing through the sunshine, and that voice wafting through the rustling leaves.

And by a stroke of luck (he couldn’t decide if good or bad), he didn’t have to just imagine it anymore.

The very object of his sketchpad’s desire, Enjolras, was walking—gliding, really—down the park path outside the playground, talking animatedly on his cell phone to someone. R would almost have felt bad for the person on the receiving end of this particular tongue-lashing if he weren’t so damn distracted by that voice. That eerie sense of calm washed over once again and it began to sink into his pores before he realized he was staring.

Stuffing his car keys back in his pocket, he tried to make dash for it, but he’d been spotted. There was nothing to do now but stand ground and wait for those disappointed eyes to kill any happiness he had been feeling that day.

Enjolras made his way over, quickly and curtly ending his phone conversation with “We aren’t finished, though. I will be calling right back.”

Nervously tracing his bony fingers over the sketchbook again, R wanted nothing more than to avoid the apathetic gaze, get back to the sandbox and start sketching. Instead, he remained frozen, mentally preparing for the effect the voice took on his body.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started with a short nod. His eyes made their way up and down the art student’s form again, and R had to do everything in his power not to vomit on the spot. 

“Enjolras, always a pleasure. I hope I’m not keeping you from something important,” he started. He was not entirely sure how one begins a conversation with the actual personification of perfection. “Seemed like quite a tense phone conversation.”

Enjolras tucked a loose blond curl back behind his ear and tilted his head slightly in an obvious state of confusion. “I didn’t think that was tense. That is how all my phone conversations sound.”

Grantaire couldn’t hold back the laugh. “You’d be a real hit as a telemarketer, then. Nobody would have the balls to say ‘no’ to whatever you were selling.”

The glint in Enjolras’ eye changed ever so slightly before he responded, 

“I think you would.”

Grantaire held his gaze for as long as his mind would allow. The mixture of the stare and Enjolras’ voice was making his entire body shake. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and he was starting to feel like it was nothing he would ever experience with anyone else.

Enjolras cleared his throat forcefully, taking a step closer. His eyes fell to the sketchpad and to the fingers still nervously drumming there.

“We have a meeting tonight, you know,” he started. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t care in the slightest about what we’re discussing.”

“You know nothing about me, Enjolras.”

It had just slipped out. Grantaire was getting tired of the judgement, tired of the looks. He had been in this man’s presence for less than two hours total and he would not subject himself to such unfair scrutiny.

Even if he did think Enjolras’ judgments about him were probably right.

R could smell a sweet mixture of fruit and coffee as Enjolras shifted again. He shuffled oddly close, pulling out his cell again before looking into Grantaire’s eyes with a challenge. 

“Prove me wrong. Come tonight.”

With that, he began to stride confidently away, the phone going back to his ear. He hollered over his shoulder as he turned the corner “I’ll text you directions just in case!”

Grantaire stood dumbfounded for about 30 seconds before turning back toward the sandbox. He was eagerly met with three sets of eyes staring curiously in his direction and started the awkward march back to his towel. Courfeyrac, of course, spoke first.

“And what exactly was that about?” 

“Nothing,” Grantaire mumbled. He wanted to make sure this didn’t become a bigger deal externally because it was already murder internally. “He just wanted to see if I was coming to your meeting tonight. No big deal.”

Jehan spoke up next, a hint of amusement in his large brown eyes. “He hung up the phone to ask you that? I mean, he actually ended a rather loud phone call to speak with you?”

“Yeah. What? Is that not normal?” 

Jehan just shrugged, looking pensive. “Of course with Enjolras, it’s hard to tell what ‘normal’ really is.”

A knowing laugh fell over the group before he continued. “We truly would love to have you with us tonght! I know Feuilly and Ep would be especially appreciative to see you and Bahorel.” 

When a hum was Grantaire’s only verbal acknowledgement, Courfeyrac took the opportunity to edge a bit closer, using Jehan’s big yellow umbrella as a bit of a shield for the two of them. He had been Grantaire’s very loyal friend for so many years that R could see the change in those puppy dog eyes when he was trying to be understanding.

“I get it, though, if you don’t want to come, R. I mean I know this can be a bit of a sore area for you.”

Pushing the dark curls back out of his eyes, Grantaire cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He resorted back to the phrase that seemed to keep people from asking questions about how he was really feeling these days.

“Seriously, I’m totally fine.”

Grantaire then realized much too late that he never gave Enjolras his phone number…

Settling back in with his sketchpad, he dug in his bag first for a pencil, then for his phone. He had one text, but it wasn’t from Enjolras. It was from his summer fling, James. 

It was the first he’d heard from him in months. His head was already spinning and this felt like the absolute last thing he needed. He wasn’t going to start picking open those old wounds now.

For now, it was time to sketch. And time to drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on getting this chapter up! Life happened...
> 
> I truly appreciate all who are still reading this story! You are wonderful, wonderful folk. 
> 
> The song referenced is called "Old Number Seven" by The Devil Makes Three.
> 
> Also, come talk to me on tumblr!! I'm lonely. Username: LesMis2LostinNewYork
> 
> Thanks so much, friends!


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